


Frozen

by sparkylungs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blacksmithing, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old Age, Princes & Princesses, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkylungs/pseuds/sparkylungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sherlock's the prince of a large country and John's just a blacksmith from a small town. It's said that the prince's heart is made of ice - that no one could ever love someone like him. John didn't think so - until he actually met him. Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has a lot of back-story, but it won't be like that for long.  
> I needed to lay down a few things first. It'll get better later on.
> 
> I was inspired by the movie Pirates of the Caribbean to make this.  
> I just loved the idea of old England, princes, and sword fights.  
> Obviously I didn't add any pirate parts - not really in the plan haha.
> 
> Anyway, this is my first Johnlock fic, so I'm hoping you like it c:

In the country of Agrinona, there was a town called Estermere that sat at the bottom of a tall hill. On that tall hill was an amazing palace which housed the ruler of Agrinona; the King. Estermere had a beautiful view of the palace and everything else that surrounded the small town. There were gorgeous bundles of trees - woods predominantly surrounding the town, engulfing the small community. Being a town of only a thousand or so, Estermere didn't cover much land. If one was to stand at the top of the hill, he'd see a small town, barely a blemish on the surface of the world, smothered in trees, plains, and the ocean far off to the east - all belonging to the royal family. Those who lived in this small town felt blessed to be so close to the King. Though, there was a reason the town remained small. The town was decidedly modest. Not to mention that if war were to break out, an attack on the King's palace was inevitable - people feared being caught up in the crossfire.

Estermere wasn't John's first choice of residence. After the tragedy in his hometown, he fled. John was convinced that he caused the tragedy - he had no other choice. He needed to go somewhere where he could seclude himself from the rest of the world. In a years' time he finally felt somewhat at peace with himself in this new town - but there was a new problem. John's life was decidedly ordinary. After living in Estermere for a significant amount of time, he found that his life was very plain. Even as the town's only doctor, there wasn't much he was busying himself with. He would wake up, take a stroll, tend to his land, read, and then retire. Some days he would join in on a few ball games in the square before the town police would drive them away. Otherwise, life was ordinary for him. There wasn't much of anything to do, and he realized that he wanted more than just medicine and books in his life.

It was because of this that John took up blacksmithing. He never understood how great the complexity of the craft was before he began, but he wasn't one to quit. It didn't take long before he was known throughout the small town as a beautiful craftsman. People flocked to his workshop, asking for swords, nails, and anything they could get a hold of. Rumors of his skills spread to villages far away - which was quite something seeing as there were no villages within a five mile radius. Saying John enjoyed the craft would be an understatement. Besides being a doctor, blacksmithing had become a large part of his life. It seemed as though John had become a significant part of the small town and he felt personally accomplished.

He was thought of as a kind, generous man. He wouldn't take money from those who needed a doctor call but couldn't afford it. Other times he'd dock prices on metal if people were struggling financially. For him, it wasn't about the money. It was the least he could do to help the town that he grew fond of. If he wasn't careful, he could easily be taken advantage of, though no one would dare to try it. They all cared for him a great deal. John grew friendly with everyone, but kept the relationships at arms length. Though many have tried to form stronger bonds, John would always unconsciously push away. It seemed as though he only wanted a connection with his work.

It was midday during the last week in November when he got an unusual customer in the workshop. The fire was crackling loudly while John was working on a particularly large order of broadswords for the neighboring town a few miles over. Having heard of John's excellent work, it wasn't unusual for an order from far away. He was almost finished, only having two swords left. He didn't like being interrupted. Once John was going at it, it was hard to tear him away. It wasn't wise to try and distract him, as distractions slowed him down greatly.

Normally his boss, Charles Isley, head blacksmith, would take care of taking the orders personally, then enlist John's help to complete it. Today was different. Hearing the usual chime of the bell signaling a customer, John saw his boss retreat from the counter in a flurry to the guest at the door. Never seeing his boss so excited over a customer before, John was slightly interested. For a brief second, John looked up to see who all the fuss was about. There in the doorway stood Knight, or Baronet, Greg Lestrade. With him were two unrecognizable service members. He was part of the nobility from the palace. Seeing parts of the royal family, or those that served them, was a great shock. They almost never came down from their palace. Their secrecy was well guarded, and that's how the King wanted it to be.

In the country of Agrinona, one family ruled - The Holmes. Their family had been the rulers for generations. Mycroft Holmes had recently rose to power after the tragic death of his father only five years ago, being the older of two sons. Mycroft was a great king. The kingdom's wealth increased significantly since the last king died. Not only that, but the death toll seemed to decrease as well, seeing as war was becoming more scarce. The kingdom was in very good hands and everyone admired the king. Having his family hidden from the world was how he protected them. Mycroft especially want to protect his only brother.

His name was Sherlock Holmes. It's said that no one knows what he looks like. Never once had he been out in public - and if he had, no one had known. His entire being was a mystery to everyone, and people hated not knowing. That was how the rumors started. People would say that he hides himself in his palace because he's unimaginably ugly or grotesque. Or that his brother's ashamed of him, so he keeps him under lock and key. It's also said that no one can bear to be in the room with him for more than a minute; that he's frustratingly impossible. They say his heart is made of ice and harbors a terrible personality - someone no one could love. Unlike the king, he's completely undesirable. At least, that's what was being said around the village.

"John," Charles' voice called, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Yes?" John asks, draping a rag over his shoulder, turning to look at him.

"These gentlemen are asking for you," he says, giving John a look. Charles was about the closest thing to a friend John could say that he has. Charles kept an eye out for him, feeling like a protective older brother. Having the royalty show up must be a sign that something wasn't right, and Charles was just worried for John.

"Oh... uh, alright," his voice wavered. John got up from his stool to walk over to three standing in the doorway. He wiped his hands on the rag that was still draped over his shoulder before stretching his hand out. "John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Greg Lestrade. Likewise," the man chimed, sounding impressed with himself. Before John could get another word in, he continued, "I would like to place an order with you."

Well, he wasn't expecting that. "Oh. Yes, alright, sure. What'll it be?" John was still wiping his hands nervously with the rag. If parts of the nobility were here, then it must be something big. They don't leave the palace for just anything.

"It seems as though we're in need of a sword for the prince. His old one has become too old for use anymore. We can't have the prince without proper protection for himself, so we'll need the sword done in three days. The best one you can make, preferably." Lestrade finished as he began fishing through his pockets.

"Three days?" John asks incredulously. He laughed slightly at the notion. "That's nearly impossible for the type of sword you're asking for."

"I've heard all about you. You make the finest swords and in good time too. I know you'll make it work." Lestrade pulls a small velvet bag out of his pocket and hands it to John. "Consider this a down payment. I'll send someone for you in three days," Lestrade says, turning towards the door. "Until then, John," He finishes before tipping his hat and walking out the door.

For a couple seconds, John stands there in stunned silence. 'How in the hell do they expect me to finish that in three days?' Swords are an exceedingly gentle craft and can't be rushed. To make a sword like that, the best he can do, will take a lot of effort - more than normal with his time frame. What's more, it's a sword for the prince. The cruel, cold-hearted prince. What if he didn't like it? What if he couldn't finish it in time? What would they do to him?

Without warning Charles smacks him on the back, attempting a friendly pat. "Well, can you imagine that? You got a lot of work ahead of you, boy. Looks like you should be getting back to work, huh?" He laughs smugly, walking back to his post behind the counter.

John pocketed the small bag, begrudgingly went back to his post and set aside his previous work. He pulled out new metal and began working. He just knew he was going to be glued to that damn spot for the next three days.

* * *

John peered out the window of his tiny workroom. The sun was just barely peeking through the trees, covered in a new layer of snow from the night before. It was a beautiful morning and John longed to just sit there staring the whole day. Sighing happily, he sheathed the sword and set it against the anvil. Today was the third day and he'd finally finished. Going on only four hours of sleep and one bath, granted the bath was two days ago, he'd say he did an alright job. Scratch that, he did a bloody amazing job. This sword was probably his best work yet. Once he began on it, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. The loved the thrill that came with creating something original. He'd only ever made two Schiavona swords before so it was almost an entirely new experience, which he thrived on.

Yawning, he propped his feet on the anvil and leaned back into the chair. Oddly enough, the chair was suddenly very comfortable. Going without sleep can do things to a man. Closing his eyes, he began to drift into slumber. Sadly it didn't last long. It seemed that as soon as it came, it left. Hearing a hard knock on the door John was started out of his sleep, barely keeping balance on his chair. He looked out the window again to see that the sun was now high in the sky, nearly covered by grey clouds. Even though it felt like seconds to him, he knew he must have been asleep at least three hours or so.

Looking up, he saw the figure step into the small workshop. "I'm here to pick up sir John Watson," He exclaimed, holding an air of authority.

Getting to his feet, John picked up the sword and waved to the man. "That'd be me," He exclaimed, stretching. He swiftly pulled his jacket off the chair and put it on himself.

Walking to a shelf, he picked out a case and fit the sword neatly inside. After getting the sword together, he held it securely under his arm. John let the man lead them out the door and into the carriage waiting for them. Within seconds they were off towards the path to the palace.

As they rode, he didn't think much of the extravagant carriage or the money he would receive or how he was going to visit the King's palace. He thought about Sherlock. The mystery prince. Were the rumors true? Was the man really disfigured? John couldn't help but picture the worst case scenario - a horribly ugly man, locked in a room away from the world. John felt something close to pity, thinking how lonely the prince must be. He sincerely hoped the rumors were false. But John really wanted to see the man, even if for only a second. He wanted to know.

John glanced out the window to see the path littered with trees on both sides. It seems they were already on the hill towards the palace. Already the view was more magnificent than anything John had ever seen. He wondered how anyone could live there and not want to come out of the house to see that everyday. Even during this time of year when the trees are bare, only snow covering the branches. It's really a beautiful sight. Just as the carriage turned, the trees were replaced by large metal doors under a brick overhang. The carriage slowed to a halt and John's heart nearly stopped, the nerves finally sinking in.

The carriage door was opened and Lestrade stood waiting. "I believe you have my Lord's order ready?"

"Y-yes," John stammered, stepping out of the carriage. The unease was written all over his face. He caught up to Lestrade as they began for the doors. The palace was much larger up close. Just standing under overhang at the front door made him feel small, and the overhang was nothing in comparison to the rest of the tall palace. It must have taken centuries to build, John concluded.

Upon opening the doors, John was engulfed in light silver hue. The foyer was was impossibly large. There were two large staircases, curving in to meet at the balcony. Behind the balcony lay a series of doors, leading out to the rest of the palace. The railings to the stairs were black, having the same design etched into them as the walls, with a wooden covering. The walls were a snowy white, making it so the gold decorations were accented nicely, draped around the staircase. Between the two staircases was a large mahogany table with a seemingly priceless vase set precariously on top. Above that was a large, extravagant chandelier that seemed to be almost as large as the table. Both sides of the room had doors lining the wall, all closed. John, having been left speechless, attempted to take in everything as best as he could.

"John?" Lestrade questioned, giving him an odd glance. John must have been staring.

"Yes, sorry. It's just that I've never seen anything like it."

Lestrade laughed heartily. "Yes, well, that was certainly the effect it had on me at first." Lestrade strode towards the center table. "Let's see her, shall we?" He asked, a smile covering his features.

John followed him to the table and laid the case down. He opened it and carefully removed the sword from it's confines. "This is a Schiavona. It's a basket-hilted, double-edged broadsword. It's classified as a broadsword because it's relatively wider in comparison to the rapier, as you can see," John announced, taking the sword out of the sheath and balancing it on his outstretched palm. "I made sure both ends were properly sharpened, seeing as he'll probably use this for offensive purposes. The approximate weight is only 1.7kg, so you won't get weighed down easily. It's thirty-three inches in length. I made the grip leather covering a wood core. This way it's easier to handle and keep a hold on. I also gave it a thumb ring if he so chooses to use it, but that's based on personal preference. Either way, she should handle nicely," John announces, feeling a little smug about himself. This was a damn good sword and he was proud.

"Excellent!" Greg exclaimed. "She's a beauty. The Lord should be pleased."

"I shall be the judge of that."

Instantly, John's head snapped up, looking towards the source of the voice. At the top of the stairs stood a slender figure, clad in large black pants, knee-high boots, and a white undershirt. He didn't even hear the man enter the room. John didn't have time to process what was happening before the man was at the bottom of the steps and grabbing the sword from his outstretched palm. He took the sword in his right hand and began examining it. John wondered briefly who the man could be. He didn't look like someone of importance from the household; not with the way he was dressed. His clothes made him look so simple, in contrast to his striking features. Crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, and dark, curly ebony hair.

"My Lord! You're out-?," Lestrade began but was cut off by the man putting a hand up, signaling silence.

In that instant, the reality of his identity hit John - that was the prince. Prince Sherlock. The one whom all the rumors were about. He wasn't anything how the rumors portrayed him. He was far from hideous and was clearly not disfigured - he was, in fact, very pleasant to the eye. John could do nothing but stare in awe. They stood there in silence for a couple moments before Sherlock spoke up.

"It's a pity. You make marvelous swords, yet you don't know how to fight with one," he said, his eyes never leaving the sword.

"I...what?" Was all John could manage. He was already stunned speechless by the man's presence. Adding insults on top of that wasn't good for his already limited vocabulary. "How did you..?" John cut off, unable to finish his sentence. Was it that obvious that he didn't know how to fight? Sherlock just snorted as if offended by what John had said.

"Well-" Sherlock began.

"My Lord, now's really not the time," Lestrade said, voice terse. Sherlock turned and gave him a brief look before glancing back at John again for a longer moment than necessary.

"Can you not afford suitable clothes, or do you always dress like that when meeting royalty?" Sherlock said, giving an almost challengingly stare.

"I'm afraid it's neither. Seeing as I had to work straight for three bloody days without rest, this was the best I could manage in the time allotted," John said abashed, growing impatient. "Although, I've never met royalty before so I haven't had the chance to pick an outfit suitable for a royal audience," he replied, sarcasm only slightly evident.

"Well, you are a blacksmith after all," he said nonchalantly. "It's not surprising someone of your pertinence would show up in that," he gestured to John. "I expect something more appropriate the next time you're in my presence."

John narrowed his eyes. The rumors were right about one thing - the man had an icy heart. He obviously wasn't good with people. Must be the reason his brother wanted to hide him from the rest of the world. Even as far as princes go, he could at least pretend to be caring about other people. Maybe then he wouldn't have to be hidden away from the rest of the world.  _'Wait, did he just insinuate that we'd be meeting again?'_

The air was silent for a long moment, tension evident, before Lestrade spoke up. "My Lord, why don't you try out your new sword?" He gestured towards the object that lie forgotten in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock nodded, seemingly unscathed from everything that just transpired, before stepping back away from the two men. He was quick to do a couple exercises, swinging the sword about, testing every part of it. It wasn't even a minute when he stopped. "A truly fine sword," he exclaimed, looking towards John. "What is your name?"

"John Watson, my Lord," was the stiff reply.

"Just Sherlock is fine," he implored, still examining the sword, feeling the edges with this fingers. After a few moments of silence Sherlock spoke up again, looking in John's direction. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me, what if I were to sustain an injury from another sword like this during a fight?"

"Well, I can tell you that it wouldn't be all too good for you," John said, giving him a smug look.

"Clearly," Sherlock droned, coming off as bored. "What I'm asking is if you have the necessary knowledge to know how to address a wound of that nature, you being a doctor and all." He finished, his hand waving away something imaginary in the air

"How did you know-?" John stopped himself. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with the prince getting another chance to have it out with him. "I would, yes," was the concise reply.

"I thought as much. Next time don't dance around the question." Sherlock quickly put the sword back in its scabbard, heading for the stairs. It seemed like an eternity watching Sherlock ascend the staircase. When he finally reached the top, he stopped for a second, looking down. "I suppose I should say good day, as it seems to be the expected social convention at times like these," he announced before retreating to the rooms beyond the stairs. Hardly a good day at all, but at least the effort was made.

"Is he always like that?" John asked, exasperated. He was mentally tuckered out from only a few minutes with Sherlock.

"Very much so. Although he doesn't get the chance to harass guests very often, seeing as we have very few. So lucky for us, the workers of the house get to experience it," he said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

John chuckled lightly. "Yes, well, I guess I should be going then."

"Yes, of course," Lestrade said, straightening out and heading for the door in the large foyer. "Here's the rest of your payment," he said, holding out another small velvet bag while simultaneously holding the door open.

"Thank you. If there are any problems, let me know."

"We shall. Thank you for your services," Lestrade nodded to John as he walked out the door.

There stood the carriage waiting to take him home. Leaving the palace seemed to be difficult on John's emotions. The main influence had to be Sherlock. The prince had been nothing like how he'd imagined him. Getting in the carriage, he thought of nothing but Sherlock on the way home. That man was impossible. The rumors had been right about his personality, though dead wrong about his appearance. John was a little put off by the whole situation. Thinking about it, he wasn't sure he'd ever want to visit with the prince again.


	2. Happy Coincidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! If you're still with me, then thank you!  
> I'm still kind of getting started - the next chapter will be a lot more interesting.  
> Anyway, enjoy! Let me know what you think :D

"I'll be damned. So the rumors are true then?" Charles asked, taking another swig of his beer, kicking his feet up on a nearby anvil. The workshop was empty so he decided it was time for him and John to take a break.

"I'm afraid so," John sighed. "Not entirely, though. There's nothing wrong with his face - he's actually quite decent looking. You know, if you can look past that dreadful demeanor of his," John said bitterly.

"If he's not hideous, then why all the secrecy?"

"Probably because no one can stand to be in a room with him for more than a minute. It'd hurt the royal family's reputation, at least," John smirked.

"Huh," Charles took another sip. "Don't suppose you'll be going back anytime soon?"

"I doubt it. I wouldn't much want to, either," John seethed, narrowing his eyes.

"I wonder what he did to piss you off. I haven't seen you this bothered since you first tried your hand at blacksmithing. And trust me mate, it wasn't a pretty sight," Charles said, patting him on the back, laughing heartily. "You got better eventually, as it would seem."

John smiled for a second before a frown found it's way to his face again. After a long moment of silence he sighed. "I guess I didn't want the rumors to be real."

Suddenly serious, Charles said, "And why is that?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. But looking at it, I don't think anyone would appreciate rumors like that about themselves. He doesn't deserve that."

"I'm sensing a contradiction, mate," Charles said smirking.

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm frustrated!" John quietly yelled without malicious intent. "He's such an arse, but I find myself feeling bad for him. Why is that?"

"You got a big heart?" It wasn't really a question. Charles brought his beer to his mouth again. "You know, you're too nice. Don't let people walk over you - take a stand."

John sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "I should get back to work."

"You can't hide your pain with work, mate. Not good for you," Charles teased, smiling. John jokingly punched him in the arm and went back to his workspace.

It had been a little over a week since John's trip to the palace. His life hadn't changed much and that little occurrence was becoming easier to forget. Unfortunately Sherlock's face had been burned into his memory, the man always looking at him with a condescending expression. John tried to forget the prince in vain. It seemed as though the more he tried, the harder it became. It was unbelievable. Even when they're not in the same room, Sherlock was still making John upset. It wasn't so much as the encounter that sparked this anger, but the let down. He'd really hoped that the prince was charming and amazing - and he was angry because he didn't know why he wanted that.

Charles was right though - when John was upset, he'd bury himself in work. Over the next couple of days John found himself holed up in the workshop, working on anything he could get his hands on. It was a lot better than staying in his tiny house, sulking. Even though his initial encounter with the prince was nothing terribly horrendous, John found that his feelings like to snowball until he's positively irate - even if it doesn't show on his face.

Since John doesn't have much going on in his life, he really didn't have anything to distract himself from his thoughts other than blacksmithing. That was until he received a house call for a sick patient. He hadn't received a house call in a long time and he was surprisingly looking forward to it.

Upon getting there, he found out that the child had Ague - an illness involving the infected to be very immobile with a high fever and chills over an extended period of time. His excitement for the house call soon disappeared and was replaced with unease upon seeing the child lying in his bed, motionless. Everything about the situation reminded him of that incident almost two years ago. John gave the child and antibiotic, gave instructions to the family for how to handle him once he was awake, and was quickly out the door and back to the shop. Not having a patient in so long made him remember why he was still reluctant to continue pursuing a medical career. The long walk back gave his mind time to wander back to those unwanted memories.

Back in his old village, he was also the only doctor then as well - his mentor having passed away many years prior. That's where he met a girl. Her name was Mary. John was quickly infatuated with her from the first moment they met. They spent many days together and John thought they were in love. It was only three months into the relationship when he found out she was infected with a disease called tuberculosis. He tried everything that he could, but he wasn't able to save her. Only a week after he'd found out her fate, she passed away.

He couldn't' do anything but blame himself. Perhaps if he'd known sooner he could have done something to help - even if there was no known cure. If that wasn't enough, soon after Mary passed away due to tuberculosis, as did his parents and many of the other villagers. The rest of the citizens were in fear and shock from the incurable disease. They became angry at John for not being able to cure their loved ones. Him being the only doctor, they ran him out of town, thinking he only brought misfortune. Harriet, John's sister, tried in vain to stop the large crowd from running him out, but not even she could help him.

It took him a few days to find Estermere and start rebuilding his life. Taking up blacksmithing helped to create a distraction from thoughts of the past. Though still being a doctor, the thoughts and guilt never did leave. He couldn't stop being a doctor; not when there's people who need his help. So every time John was angry or upset, he'd rush towards the workshop in need of a distraction. Charles was right about another thing - John couldn't hide his pain with work.

So John sat in the workshop, pounding away at metal, as if that would fix everything. After that house call, he needed a distraction more than anything. After being in this village for almost two years, John was pleased to find Estermere void of virtually all diseases. Though a few would show up occasionally - nothing too serious. House calls were rare and John liked that. During his inner turmoil, he was too focused to notice someone calling his name. It was only when a hand reached out to rest on his shoulder did he stop and look up.

"John?" Charles looked at him with something akin to sympathy. "Mate, you've been working yourself too hard."

"I have to finish this," he replied, starting again at the sword on the anvil.

"What for? There are no orders."

"Stock," John said swiftly, never looking up.

"I think we have enough stock," Charles said, pointing to the corner where the sword rack sat. The rack was so full, swords had to be placed in a pile beside it. John stayed silent. "Alright John, time to man up. So the prince is an arse. So what? It's not like you'll have to deal with him again." He huffed. "Life goes on."

John sighed and stood up. A week was too long to sulk, and he knew it. Even if that week was a sodding bad one at that. "You're right. Dwelling on this is stupid," he said, the anger almost visibly lifting from his body. He could forget the prince and pretend that the whole trip never happened. Unfortunately, his memories of the past weren't so easily forgotten. "I can't believe I let him get to me like that. We're not equals so there's no point in expecting him to treat me like one," he confessed.

Charles patted John on the back. "Exactly," he said cheerily. "Well, now that that's over, we-" Before he could finish, the doors to the shop swung open. There in the doorway stood Lestrade, looking very frightened.

"Is John Watson here?" He asked, the words coming out rushed.

'Oh god, what now?' John mentally droned. "Yes, over here," he said, his tone sounding defeated.

"John! It's an emergency. I need you to come with me to the palace immediately," he begged.

"What for? What's happened?"

"No time to explain. We need you now!" Lestrade held the door open, signaling that they should be on there way.

John didn't have time to even think, so he swiftly exited the workshop, giving Charles one last glance. It was when he got in the carriage that he realized he forgot his jacket. December storms were terrible in Agrinona - one could freeze to death if they spent a small amount of time outside. Although, the winters spent in the workshop were tolerable due to the large furnace located in the center. John involuntarily shivered as the carriage sped off towards the palace. Outside the window, the snow was coming down terribly. Looking back to Lestrade, John noticed his fingers nervously tapping against his knees.

"Alright, what's this all about?" John asked, giving him a stern look.

Seeming very distracted he answered, "The prince is in dire need of a medic."

"Why are you coming to me? You must have medics in the palace," John said, exasperated. First the house call, now this?

"Yes, but he refused help from any of them. He asked specifically for you. Even when he's injured, he's still so stubborn," he said, frustration evident on his face.

"What-Why?" John was astounded, to say the least. The first and only time they met it was an unfortunate event, resulting in a minute spat. What could the prince hope to get out of John taking care of him?

"I wish I knew why - none of us really know what's going on in his head most of the time," he said.

"I believe it," John said, sounding annoyed.

The rest of the ride to the palace was in silence. Lestrade was obviously distraught and John didn't want to say anything to upset him. After all the effort John went through to forget the first meeting, here he was, on his way back to the place it all started. He was none too thrilled to be in the prince's company again. He hated to think of how he'll be treated this time around. That must be why he asked for John - to torment him more.

They arrived at the palace in a surprisingly short amount of time. John was quickly led out of the carriage and into the house, following close behind Lestrade. They traveled up the stairs from the foyer and behind the doors of the balcony. Once inside, they were greeted with a large marble room. Numerous chandeliers hung from the large, round ceiling. The carpet was a light red, matching the walls. On both sides of the walls were large pictures of the previous ruling families, all the way up to the current. Everything in the room was beautiful. It was a magnificent sight.

"John!" Lestrade called, running over to the place where he was rooted. Apparently he'd been too caught up in the beauty that he stopped following. "We must go!"

John snapped out of his thoughts. "Right, sorry," he apologized and began running down the long room behind Lestrade once again. After following him through more of the palace, they were finally greeted with large wooden doors at the end of a long, wide hallway.

Lestrade knocked twice on the wooden doors before asking, "May I come in?"

"Yes," said the familiar voice - the voice John tried to forget - muffled through the door.

Lestrade pushed the door open and led John inside before him, then shutting the door once again. "Sir John Watson is here," Lestrade said, his voice full of relief upon seeing the prince okay. Well, about as 'okay' as one could be when injured.

The room was magnificent. The walls were a cerulean shade, giving the room a blue glow. The ceiling was at least 20 feet tall. The entire floor was marble except for the blue wooden base beneath the bed. There were chairs against the walls and couches placed in the center of the room. The bed took up a large space of the room, being the largest bed John had ever seen. The headboard had a very detailed design involving a series of rose buds tangled together. The bed's tester covered the whole length of the bed and was held up by four columns on all sides of the bed. The bed curtains were all tied to each column, making the inside visible. Everything in the room looked amazing.

There were many people in the room besides himself and Lestrade. It looked to be a couple medics and a family maid or two. Looking towards the bed, John saw the prince propped up against a mountain of pillows, only a comforter covering his lower half. Sherlock had bags under his eyes, trying tirelessly to stay awake it would seem. He looked paler and less lively than the last time John saw him. He was only wearing a plain white undershirt again - nothing fancy. Same as last time.

As much as John wanted to give him a piece of his mind, he held himself in check and carefully approached the bed. He stared at Sherlock for a couple seconds before asking,"So what's wrong?"

Sherlock smirked. "You're the doctor, you tell me."

John narrowed his eyes but leaned over the bed to examine the prince. Using the back of his hand he felt his forehead first. Very warm - fever. John went for his wrist, feeling the pulse. Accelerated - could be in pain or an infection. He felt around his left side for any damage and moved to his right. When his fingers trailed across his abdomen the man below him took a sharp intake of breath. Pain in right abdomen - Filatov's disease? John narrowed his eyes, taking the shirt fabric between his fingers, seeing tiny red spots scattered around his right side. Red spots - blood. He lifted the shirt a little ways to see a rather large white wrap around his abdomen, blood clearly soaking through. 'So it's a physical ailment.' He lifted the bandage up slightly to asses how bad the damage was. He involuntarily winced upon seeing the problem. 'It's going to need stitches.'

John turned to look in Lestrade's direction. "I'm going to need a few things. Can you get them for me?"

"Anything," he said, visibly distressed. "What do you need?"

"First I'm going to need an disinfectant. A bowl of salt water should do fine. I'll also need a sewing needle with clean thread, two sheets of cotton, a small knife, sterilization fluid, a large towel, a hand towel, and bandages," he finished turning back to the prince.

Without a word, Lestrade nodded and exited. There was silence for a long time after the room emptied out, following Lestrade.

John finally spoke up. "Why did you call me here?"

"Oh please, John. Don't tell me you've forgotten," he said. John just stared back, confusion written all over his face.

He sighed. "You told me you knew how to treat sword wounds. Why else would you be here?"

"But how could you have known this was going to happen?" John had forgotten that part of the conversation they had previously. After all, it was the only part of the conversation that wasn't an insult.

"I didn't. Happy coincidence, isn't it?" It wasn't even a question but a statement, and in no way was it happy. At least not to John.

"How on earth did you get wounded in the first place?"

"During sword training. The instructor didn't know what he was doing, clearly," he said, slightly motioning towards his wound.

"Why not have one of your personal medics treat you? It's not terribly difficult stitching up wounds."

"I don't trust them with handling me," he said, like it was obvious.

"And you trust me?"

"More than them, yes."

John hesitated before asking, "Why? We don't know a thing about each other, and this is only our second meeting."

Sherlock gave him a challenging smirk. "I know you're a blacksmith who enjoys making swords but you can't fight with them. You have callouses on your hand. From work - yes, from fighting - no. Your arms are unusually toned, unlike your legs. Fighting forces one to utilize both, whereas you're only superior in upper strength - hence only a blacksmith. I know you live alone because you spend most of your time in the workshop. Your clothes and physical demeanor show that. No girlfriend or wife because of the occupation - no girl would put up with your incessant hours in the shop - and your hesitancy to create relationships.

"Hesitancy? Yes. You moved here not too long ago. If you had been here a long time, it's unlikely that you're just now being recognized for your talent in blacksmithing. But you live alone and have an unusually kind personality. You're also very reserved and it shows that you don't want to be noticed. Some tragic event must have driven you to move here. Because you're a doctor, I'm assuming it has to do with you feeling responsible for a patient you couldn't save. This isn't just any patient though - you two must have been close, or else it wouldn't have such a profound impact. You're hesitant to trust anybody after that. This is why you've taken up blacksmithing - a distraction from being just a doctor and feeling guilty for what you couldn't prevent." Sherlock finished, turning to look in the opposite direction of the man he was addressing.

John sat in stunned silence. He'd never experienced anything like that before. Even though his whole life's secrecy was violated, he felt impressed. He should feel angry or upset but the only thing running through John's mind is-

"That... Was amazing," was all John could manage, glancing at Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed to hesitate a moment before turning to face John as well. His blue eyes seemed lighter than they had before. They were no longer indifferent, but curious.

After a moment he asked, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was," John said without hesitation. "Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock said sounding slightly baffled.

"What do people normally say?"

"Sod off," Sherlock says with almost amusement, his smile not reaching his eyes..

A couple seconds later the door to the prince's room was flung open. Lestrade and a few house maids carried the supplies over to a nearby table, opposite the right side of the bed.

"Can you bring that table closer to the bed please?" John asked as he began rolling up his sleeves. As Lestrade began moving the table closer, John turned back to Sherlock. "Can you move at all?"

"Of course I can. I'm not completely incapable."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, I'm going to set a towel down on the bed and I'd like for you to move over and lay on it," John said, turning to the table and grabbing the towel. Pushing away the comforter, he laid the towel over the bed sheets. "Okay, Prince-"

"Just Sherlock, thank you," he said, the words coming out harsher than they were probably meant to be.

"Okay, Sherlock," John began again. "I'm going to need you to lie flat on the towel. Careful not to put any more strain on the wound, though." John watched as Sherlock moved himself over to lie on the towel, kicking the comforters off his legs.

"Is there anything else you need, sir?" Lestrade asked, still standing by the table.

"No, I'm fine, thank you. This should be good," John replied.

"Alright, I'll be right outside the door should either of you need anything," Lestrade finished, leaving out the door, the maids following close behind.

As soon as everyone else was out of the room, John turned back to Sherlock. "Lift your arms up." Sherlock frowned at him. "Oh just do it," John sighed. Sherlock reluctantly obeyed. John quickly pulled the shirt off him, leaving him lying there bare-chested. He then removed the white bandage that hid the wound.

John went to back to the table and dipped the rag in the salt water and brought it to the wound. He first wiped away all the blood surrounding the wound, then carefully applied it over the entire wound. Once he was sure that the wound had been disinfected, he wiped it dry with the edge of the towel. Using the saltwater, John washed his hands before grabbing the need and thread. He brought it back to the bed, sitting back down in the chair. After he finished getting the needle sterilized, he looked up at Sherlock.

"Now, this is going to hurt a little bit," he said warily.

"I'm not a child. It's only a few stitches," he said confidently.

John just chuckled. "It's a lot more than a few stitches for this type of wound." John leaned closer to Sherlock's body to have better access to the wound. The first contact between the body and needle caused Sherlock's body to go slightly rigid. The discomfort was obvious, but he was trying in vain not to show it. Every tug of the needle made him wince.

After twenty-three stitches, John was finally finished. He tied a firm not at the end and cut off the excess thread. "There. All finished," he said, reaching to the table to grab the cotton sheets and bandages. He laid the cotton on the wounds first before taking the bandages and wrapping them around his abdomen - an awkward task considering Sherlock was still lying on the bed. "Not so bad, right?"

"No," he said, staring at the ceiling. He looked positively drained.

"Well, try not to move around too much for the next week or so. You don't want those stitches to open up," John said, getting up and putting all the materials back on the table and grabbing the clean towel. After dipping it in the water, he returned to the bed and carefully laid it over Sherlock's forehead. "This should help with the fever," he pointed out, seeing Sherlock's curious glance. "You'll also want to wash the stitched area twice a day thoroughly. The stitches can come out in two weeks." For a few seconds no one said anything, and John would have thought he was asleep had his eyes not been open. John didn't exactly expect a 'thank you,' but he thought that Sherlock might have at least said something.

"Well, if that's all, I guess I should be going then," he said, walking towards the door. Just as he opened the door, he heard Sherlock speak up.

"Wait," he called. John turned to see him struggling to sit up.

"What did I just say?" John shouted, walking back towards the bed. "You just got stitches - you really shouldn't be moving right now. You're going to ruin all the work I've done. Do you want to go through that again?"

Lestrade walked through the open door. "My Lord, you're all finished then?"

"Yes," John replied before Sherlock could say anything. "I'm finished here. I think it's time I took my leave."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, sir," Lestrade announced, looking slightly apologetic.

"What? What do you mean it's impossible?"

"Well, there's a terrible blizzard outside. The carriage is stuck in three feet of snow."

John quickly glance towards a window, seeing nothing but white outside. "I can walk," John said sounding reluctant.

"Not wise. It's at least a two hour walk in that snow. You'll be dead in thirty minutes."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Being snowed in - in the palace with the prince nonetheless. Sighing angrily, he ran a hand over his face. "What do you suppose I do then?"

"You're welcome to stay here until it's safe to go home," Lestrade smiled.

John hesitated, looking to the prince then back to Lestrade. It seemed he didn't much have a choice. Begrudgingly, John said, "That would be great, thank you."

"Right then, I'll have the maids get a room ready for you. In the meantime, please make sure our Lord is taken proper care of," he said, leaving the room once again in a hurry.

John groaned audibly before turning back to the prince. This whole trip couldn't have been timed worse. After his terrible first encounter with the prince and his house call, his week was shaping up to be quite a bother.

"You're upset," the prince observed.

John laughed dryly. "That's a good deduction, yeah."

"Why?"

John gave the prince an inquisitive look. He looked genuinely confused, like he was oblivious to the reason. John decided to play along. "Well, I'm stuck here during a blizzard. I won't be home for a long while. Plus, I'm stuck looking after a prince who, for some reason, doesn't particularly care for me."

"I never said that," he inquired, his expression unreadable.

"It's obvious from the way you talk to me."

"I hadn't realized that the way one speaks is linked to an amount of fondness someone has for another," Sherlock said, giving John a confused stare.

Was he for real? Sherlock's expression never wavered. He looked like he was honestly confounded about the whole situation. "But, everything you said-"

"I merely say what I observe," Sherlock interrupted. "I beg pardon if I have by mistake offended you in some way. I'm not used to talking to commoners such as yourself from outside the castle."

That's when it hit John. Sherlock was only used to talking to people in the castle - people whom he orders around. He probably doesn't know that he's being impudent.

"You're not used to it? How many people like myself have you conversed with?" John asked, somewhat more understanding, but still astonished.

"Just you."

John was nearly speechless at that. "You've never talked with anyone who didn't work inside the castle besides myself?"

"John please, I don't like repeating myself. I'm sure even someone like you can comprehend that."

Well, that was something. No wonder he was such a prick - he'd never had any real communication with anyone but servants. Those were people we was supposed to order around, so he hadn't really had any real communication with anyone. John felt a sudden twinge of guilt and sorrow. He now realized why the prince said everything he did, and he felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.

"You pity me," Sherlock observed again, taking in John's transparent expression.

John just laughed. "Stop that," he said, walking back towards the bed and sitting in the chair beside it.

"Stop what?"

"Observing me. It's a bit uncomfortable," John said, smiling. He felt suddenly happier knowing that the prince wasn't being intentionally malicious towards him. Now knowing what he did, John realized he had to take a different approach with the him.

"Well, I won't stop observing you, but I can stop voicing my deductions aloud if you'd like."

"That's, well.. A start," John said, albeit reluctantly.

Just then there was a soft knock on the door. "Enter," Sherlock said, commandingly. Lestrade and a house maid entered.

"A room has been made up for you, sir," Lestrade said. "Miss Sarah will escort you there." He motioned towards the woman standing next to him.

"Oh, thank you," John said, getting up from the chair to walk over to Lestrade and the maid.

"While you're here, I must encourage you to care for our Lord to see that he gets better soon," Lestrade whispered to John.

John nodded. "Yeah, sure. I can do that." Lestrade nodded back, a sign of thanks. John turned back to Sherlock to see his gaze locked on him, his expression still unreadable. "Well, then. I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow. Goodnight," John said, eyes still lingering on Sherlock before taking a quick glance at Lestrade. John turned and followed the maid through the double doors.

A faint, "Goodnight, John," was the last thing he heard from Sherlock's mouth before the doors slammed behind him.


	3. Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Read!
> 
> Well, this chapter is where the Explicit rating comes in.  
> I figured out that reading gay porn and writing it are two totally different things haha  
> Anyway, I hope you guys like it. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, if there are any spelling errors (or other errors), feel free to let me know. I try to catch as many as possible.
> 
> Another note:   
> In the 1800s people would refer to lunch as dinner and dinner as supper. It might come off a little confusing in the story. Sorry about that!

John was startled awake by a soft knock on the door. He took a long breath in through his nose, his eyes slowly fluttering open. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was and how he got there. Stretching, he answered with a tired, "Yes?"

At that moment, Lestrade stepped into the room. "Dinner will be served shortly. We have prepared appropriate clothes for you," he said, motioning towards a maid now entering the room.

"I'm sorry, did I miss breakfast?"

"No. There's no point in making breakfast when no one attends the meal," he replied, smiling. Lestrade, seeing John's confused look, elaborated. "We all figured since dinner's only a few hours later that there's really no point. Breakfast is only served on very special occasions now."

"Ah, I suppose that makes sense," John said, getting out of bed. He walked towards Lestrade and the maid, taking the clean pair of clothes. "Thank you."

"Once you're dressed, I'd like for you to check on the prince and see to it that he gets any help he might need. I'll send someone to get you once dinner is ready," Lestrade said.

"Can't he can show me the way to where dinner is served?"

"Well, that could be a problem. You see, the prince doesn't usually eat dinner. Or supper, for that matter," Lestrade responded, as if slightly frustrated.

John stood there in stunned silence for a bit. That was strange. Not only was it unusual for someone to deny eating dinner or supper, it's even more so for a member of the royal family to deny it. Meals to them were like statements of power.

"Well, alright. Thank you," John said, slightly put off but the odd situation. Lestrade nodded before heading out the door with the maid.

John quickly changed, folding his dirty clothes and laying them at the end of the bed. They'd given him a white linen shirt and a deep red, silk vest. With it came a black silk cravat, a small pattern covering it. Next was a pair of black fall front trousers. He pulled on his own boots, them being the most worn out part of his new ensemble. He felt so out of the place the clothes they had given him. He'd never worn anything quite as nice as this. Only touching it made John feel like he was dirtying it.

John walked over to the window before pulling the curtains open. It seemed as though the snow doubled overnight and it was still coming down just as hard. He mentally sighed. Getting back home seemed to be so far away with the way the weather was currently going. He wondered briefly about what Charles would think of him not being back yet. Although, everyone in Agrinona knew how harsh the winter could be, so he was sure Charles could assume the palace workers would put him up for a couple of nights. John closed the curtains again before heading out the bedroom doors.

He already knew the way to the prince's room, so getting there wasn't a difficult task. Still, that didn't make the journey any shorter. The palace was truly enormous. He approached the door and lightly knocked. "Sherlock, it's me," he said, then quickly added, "John. John Watson - your doctor." He mentally slapped himself. God, he sounded stupid.

"Come in," the man said from the opposite side of the door. John, following the order, walking in and shut the door behind him. Sherlock was still in the same position he was in the night before, propped up against his pillows. John strode over to the side of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, smoothing his fingers over his own trousers in an obvious state of discomfort being in the clothes he was in.

"Better than you, from the looks of it," Sherlock said. "I see you've finally been given some decent clothes."

"Yes, well, that's thanks to your maids," John said, not letting on to how much he disliked the new outfit - or how that remark left him slightly offended. He wasn't usually one for rudeness. "I'm going to check your stitches now, if that's alright?"

Sherlock nodded as John went to lift up his shirt - just enough to show the wound. The stitches looked fine, indicating that there isn't an infection. John looked around the room for a second, and found the table he was using yesterday. It still had the bowl of salt water and a rag on it. He walked over towards it, rinsing the rag, and bringing it back to Sherlock.

"When I'm gone you'll need to clean the area at least twice a day," John said as he began to delicately rub the affected area. When his fingers accidentally brushed against Sherlock's smooth skin, he felt a jolt of electricity pass through him. _'What the hell...?'_ It wasn't necessarily an uncomfortable experience. In fact, he felt strangely warm. John hadn't felt anything like that since he was with Mary. John quickly shook his head. 'No, it's nothing like that. I'm just not used to contact with others.' Still, the feeling remained there, making John feel unsettled.

After a few more seconds of cleaning the stitches, John got up and brought the rag back to the bowl.

"Uhhg-" Sherlock moaned, John's back to him. John quickly turned around seeing him struggling to stand up. Walking back to his side, John helped him stand, letting him put an arm around his shoulder for support. John tried mentally brush away the thoughts that were brought on by Sherlock's lightest touch.

"You shouldn't be moving around much. You're still a little weak," John implored, side-glancing at Sherlock.

"I can handle walking," Sherlock replied coldly, pulling his arm away from John's shoulder. Sherlock then slowly and steadily walked into his closet. John saw him struggle slightly to stay up. A minute or two later he emerged. He had on another white undershirt, and a pair of brown fall front trousers with black leather lace up boots. Even in that plain attire, he was still strikingly handsome.

John was doing everything in his power to ignore the new effects Sherlock was having on him when a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. "Enter," Sherlock called, his velvet voice carrying through the air.

A butler came through the door, not bothering to shut it behind him. "Dinner is ready. I'm here to escort Sir John Watson," He said, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. Analyzying at the man, John realized that he'd never seen the same person twice in the castle other than Lestrade. It made him wonder exactly how many people the royal family had to help them there.

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock started, picking up a coat discarded on a nearby chair and pulling it over himself. "I will be dining today. I can escort him."

The butler looked surprised for a second before bowing and leaving back out the door. John turned to face Sherlock, equally as surprised. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, already knowing John's train of thought. It wasn't anything new that Sherlock could guess what other people were thinking - and that frightened John. Who's to stop him from reading more of John's thoughts? Especially the more recent ones directed towards Sherlock.

Instead of delving more into the look John was giving him, Sherlock went and opened the door to his bedroom, beckoning John outside of it.

After exiting the room, Sherlock lead them through the palace, not saying a word. John thought it'd be wise to follow his example and kept his mouth shut as well. He had a ton of questions, but decided against asking them for fear of possibly angering the prince. He wanted to ask him why he never ate. Or why he was eating now, of all times, with him. He wanted to know why the prince was being kind to him when he was rumored to have a horrible personality. He wanted to know why he kept himself hidden from the world outside the palace. Although John had all these questions, he wasn't sure if he'd ever get them answered.

It wasn't long before the two of them reached the dining hall. John tried to memorize the route it took them to get there, though it wouldn't be much use considering he wouldn't be at the palace long. Upon entering, John saw a large, rectangular table in the center of the room. He was surprised to find that there was an unusually small amount of people gathered around the table. The only recognizable person was Lestrade - and the look he was giving John was one of astonishment. Looking around at everyone, John saw that the rest of the group were all equally as confounded. John guessed it was because of the fact that Sherlock rarely at with them.

Sherlock, still silent, took his place at the head of the table. He motioned for John to take the empty seat next to Lestrade, a ways down from Sherlock's seat. John noticed that one of the other empty seats was opposite Sherlock's, at the other end of the table. He assumed that to be the King's, when he ate there. John figured that the King and Sherlock must be a lot alike since it seemed they didn't frequent the dining hall often.

Soon after taking his seat the food arrived. John would glance at Sherlock often throughout his meal. He told himself it was due to his curiosity about the man and his eating habits and nothing else. There couldn't have been another reason for John to unconsciously stare at him as much as he was. John was curious. That was all.

Not long after the meal started Lestrade leaned towards John, his voice barely above a whisper. "How did you do it?"

John looked at him for a second before leaning towards the other man as well, whispering back. "What do you mean?"

"How on earth did you convince him to finally eat?"

"I... Didn't," John said, surprised. "He offered to come down."

"My god," Lestrade said, still whispering. "I wonder what's come over him."

John leaned closer to Lestrade to ensure no one was listening before replying. "Maybe he's finally stopped being a prat and realized he needs to eat to live."

He and Lestrade shared a short chuckled before Lestrade responded. "Let's hope so. For his sake."

John nodded, agreeing, before going back to his food. He gave a quick glance in Sherlock's direction to find the man staring back at him. Sherlock looked slightly put off and annoyed before his cold demeanor returned to his face quickly and he went at his food once again. Sherlock's face was more expressive than anything John had seen the man display since first meeting him and it puzzled John. Everything he did was on the strange side and John felt himself wanting to know more about him.

* * *

After dinner was finished, Sherlock insisted John follow him to the study. John couldn't exactly say no. After all, he was a guest in the palace. Not that he would deny anyway. In all truth, he was very curious about the prince and wanted to know all he could about him.

Sherlock entered the double doors leading to study, John following close behind. John noticed to the two guards stationed at the entry to the room. When he was in, he noticed that all the walls, except for the wall adjacent to the pair which had a large fireplace, were lined with shelves of books. Sherlock went to a large bookcase at the far end of the room, lingering by it for only a few seconds, before pulling out a book. The book in hand, he walked over to a large white divan near the fireplace and sprawled across it. He flipped the book open and began to read, as if John wasn't in the room at all.

John stood in the doorway for a few seconds, pondering on what he should do. He was slightly upset that Sherlock took him there and has yet to even say a word.

"So, why am I here?' He inquired, looking around the room.

"Because I want you to be," was the blunt response, Sherlock not bothering to look up from his book.

A minute or two passed before John asked, "Why?"

"I like company when I read. It helps me think better," Sherlock said, his voice keeping a smooth monotone.

"So, uh, what should I do while you read then?"

"Sit," Sherlock said out of patients, using his head to gesture to the ground next to the divan he was currently sitting on, his eyes still not leaving the book in front of him.

It wasn't exactly ideal, but again, John couldn't exactly refuse. He made his way to the divan and sat down next to it, leaning his head on the edge. From that position, if he looked straight up, he could just barley see a set of dark curls looming over his head. Sherlock's pale fingers found their way through his own dark hair, his elbow keeping him sitting up right, head leaning in his hand. Sherlock wouldn't have caught John staring - not tearing his gaze away from the book on his lap.

After a few minutes of admiring the man sitting behind him, John spoke up, unable to take the silence for much longer. "So..." He trailed off, playing with the fabric of his sleeve.

He could hear Sherlock audibly sigh before he heard the thud of a book shutting. "You're not very good at this. you know."

"Good at what?"

"Listening," Sherlock said looking down at John, his head still resting in the same position, making it easy for eye contact. Staring back into those crystal blue eyes made John strangely nervous. And not only because he knew the man could read his whole life from a glance.

"But you're not saying anything," John stated.

"I don't need to be saying anything for you to listen," he responded, matter-o-factly.

"I'd prefer it," John admitted. The second he said it he wished he could take it back, mentally slapping himself in the face.

John had never seen Sherlock surprised, and the look Sherlock gave him was priceless - he was currently loving all the new facial expressions he gets to see of the man. Although he mainly wore a look of boredom, whenever John was around it seemed as though he was more expressive with his emotions. John wondered if that was the case with a lot of people that spent time with Sherlock, or if he was just special. Surprising himself, John hoped it was the latter.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, still slightly stunned. A rare expression for him seeing as though he was almost never stunned or confused.

John thought a second before saying, "I'm not sure myself."

Sherlock seems to shift in place on the seat behind John, sitting in a more comfortable position. "Well, go on then. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

"Nothing in particular," John said, unconvincingly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in John's expression. "Okay, you have questions."

"Well, yes, I have a ton of questions. You're different from what I'd thought you'd be," John replied without hesitation.

"How did you think I'd be?" Sherlock asked with a hint of superiority. John could tell his question came off a bit self-conscious, though.

"From what I heard, I thought you'd be unpleasant and difficult to deal with. And when I first met you, that seemed to be the case. But I think you're a lot more kind than people give you credit for," John said, tilting his head up to get a better view of Sherlock's face. "You don't often show it, but it's there. I think you try to hide it, but you shouldn't. You're a great man."

John didn't know where this confession had come from, but it seemed to be spilling out of him without really any control on his behalf. Sherlock's face seemed to lift for a few seconds before falling back into it's usual, blank expression. He didn't say anything for a little while, examining John's.

"Is it money you want?" He asked after a minute or two.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not very wealthy, so it has to be money, correct?"

"I, uh... I'm not sure what you mean." John asked, confused.

"People aren't normally that nice to me unless they want something in return. Usually it's money, sometimes it's land. Either way, there's always a catch."

John was baffled. Has he never truly received a compliment not stemmed from another's self-interest? "I don't want your money - There's no catch. Just... Making conversation."

Sherlock eyed him for a second. "Interesting," he whispered off-handedly.

John really felt bad for the prince. There didn't seem to be anyone close him. Even his brother - the king - couldn't have been close. After all, John hadn't seem him even once since Sherlock was injured.

The next thing Sherlock said caught John off guard.

"I like to read. Life's dull and the more to think about, the better. I also play the violin. Not only does it help me think, I also like the sound of it. Talking to other people is tiresome because everyone around me is basically an idiot. Therefore I don't have a close relationship with anyone - which is by choice. My brother and I don't get along. Our family is withdrawn from the rest of the country because we're busy trying to sort out the dreadful affairs our parents left us with when they died," Sherlock said. "You're curious about my life. Well, that's it."

Saying John was surprised would be an understatement. John was happy to know more about Sherlock's life and glad that Sherlock chose to tell him. He'd said it himself after all - he doesn't have a close relationship with anyone. But why would Sherlock tell John about his life? Especially now? Was this a 'thank you' for caring about him without a hidden motive?

"How did you know I was curious?" John asked, settling on a question.

"It's written all over your face."

"Oh," John replied dryly, glancing out the window. He was uneasy about him being like an open book to the other man. Everything he'd just heard, though, was astounding. Sherlock really was an interesting person. He wasn't like the rumors at all - they had it wrong. Not that Sherlock would care about rumors anyway.

As John continued to stare out the window he noticed that the weather had yet to let up. Lost in thought, John almost didn't notice someone else entering the large study, walking towards them. It was Lestrade. "My lord, your bath is drawn and ready." He seemed to falter a second before addressing John. "Oh, John. I didn't know you were here. Afterwards we can draw you a bath as well, if you'd like."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"Yes, aright. Shall we go, my lord?" Lestrade asked, motioning for Sherlock to stand up and follow him.

"Come, John," Sherlock demanded, standing from the divan and following Lestrade. John didn't have much of a choice but to follow Sherlock and Lestrade seeing as he was still unfamiliar with the palace. Not following now and getting lost later didn't seem like such a good idea.

After both John and Sherlock were done with their baths, John checked Sherlock one last time before supper was ready. The stitches were still fine and his recovery was coming along very well. It's almost like they don't need John there anymore. Not that he can help it, with the bloody storm and all.

Shortly after he was done with Sherlock, he was lead to the dining hall one again. Not surprisingly, Sherlock didn't attend the meal this time. It was a miracle to catch him eating at all earlier that day. Throughout supper, the only conversation was about Sherlock's recent odd behavior. John decided to stay out of it, keeping to himself for the meal. After all, the majority of the palace staff weren't exactly complimenting the prince's eating habits.

Supper then passed by quickly enough, leading John to retire for the night. But not before Lestrade lead him back to his room. Once inside, Lestrade shut the door behind him, making him and John the only two there.

"Well," Lestrade began. "I don't know what you did or how you did it, but I think Sherlock may have finally found someone he's interested in."

"Interested in? No, that can't be right. I'm really nothing special. Boring, even," John said, trying to convince the other man. There's no way he could be interesting to Sherlock.

"I don't know what it is, but he's taken a liking to you. I don't think I've ever seen him as interested in a person as he is in you."

"I think you're mistaken. I'm just John Watson - again, nothing special."

"Well, it seems he doesn't see it that way."

John gave him a challenging look.

"Look, all I'm trying to say is to be careful with him. This has never happened before. Maybe you can help him, seeing as he's taken an interest in you," Lestrade said, heading for the door.

"Help him with what?"

"Goodnight John." With that, Lestrade left the room, leaving John standing there still very confused.

John wasn't in the mood for mysteries. He decided to try and ignore what Lestrade said, though it was probably impossible. Instead of dwelling on it too much, he began to get ready for bed, stripping down to a pair of loose white pants lying on the bed. He assumed they were his pajamas set out for him by the maids. He was mentally exhausted by this point in the day, so sleep came quickly to him after he climbed into bed.

* * *

John felt soft hands slide down his chest and stop just above the waistband of his trousers. The heat from the hands sent a comfortable, warm feeling throughout his body. He groaned in pleasure, his eyes shut tightly, as the hands dipped below his pants to tease the skin underneath.

"You like that?" A deep voice murmured next to his ear before lips descended upon his neck. Each kiss, suck and bite to his neck burned into his skin, leaving him wanting more.

"Yes," he said, breathless. His hands found themselves tangled in the hair of the man on top of him, trying to pull him closer to his neck, if that was possible.

John's back arched instantly after those soft hands wrapped themselves around his length and began to stroke him. After only a couple of fluid strokes, John had to stop himself from thrusting into the hand relentlessly. It'd been a while since he'd last done this, after all. And even though John had no recollection of how he'd gotten in this situation in the first place, he didn't much mind or care. He was too focused on the pleasure he was receiving. He made a particularly loud moan before clamping his mouth shut and biting down on his lip to stop any more outbursts.

A soft chuckle came from the man above him, his warm breath tickling John's neck. "Let your voice out. I like it," the figure above him demanded. Just then, John felt soft lips meet his own. He opened them willingly when a tongue darted out to lick his closed lips. Their tongues collided and John opened his mouth further to allow more access for the other to explore. John's hand slipped down to the back of the figure's neck, fingers gripping the curls at the base of his skull.

A few more strokes from that amazing hand had John moaning into his partner's mouth and kissing back just as feverishly. Reluctantly, the man on top of John pulled away, still stroking him. "Open your eyes," the man whispered.

John hadn't realized they'd been closed this entire time and obeyed the man above him. Upon opening them, John found none other than Sherlock leaning over him. John's eyes widened a considerable amount. What the hell was he doing in bed with Sherlock? The man above him just smirked, taking in John's expression.

Instead of leaning down to kiss John again, Sherlock trailed down John's body until he was faced with John's manhood. Swiftly and smoothly, he pulled his hands away and instead pulled down John's pants.

"Wait," John said reluctantly. As much as he wanted this - and damn did he want this - he was slightly unsettled knowing it'd be Sherlock who'd done it to him.

Ignoring him, Sherlock just smirked before his mouth descended upon John's cock. John immediately let out a rather loud, breathy moan. Sherlock only took that as encouragement, his tongue and mouth sucking and licking, driving John wild.

"S-sherlock, wait," John tried again, but his voice only came out as needy instead of demanding. Honestly, the sight of Sherlock with John's cock in his mouth was the most erotic thing John had ever seen. But John didn't want to believe that he might be attracted to the man. For God's sake, he wasn't gay. Although this situation was beginning to prove otherwise.

John's breathing sped up as Sherlock picked up his pace. He frantically grabbed at the sheets beneath him, trying to control himself from bucking wildly into Sherlock's mouth. He was so close.

"Ahhhh... Sherlock, stop. I... can't anymore," John moaned, eyes shut tight. Sherlock ignored him, keeping up his pace. Quicker than he'd expected, John came with Sherlock's mouth still on him. Sherlock pulled away after trying to swallow as much as he could but still ended up with a mess on his face.

John laid there, panting. He looked up at Sherlock who still loomed over him, smirking. "That was quick," he said, condescension evident in his voice.

Before John could react to the man, his eyes flew open, revealing a large white ceiling above him.  _'What?'_  He quickly sat up and looked around. No Sherlock anywhere.  _'Was it a dream?'_

Smoothing his hands over his face, he realized that his forehead was covered in sweat. He quickly grabbed for the comforter over him and tossed it to the side. His trousers had a large stain on the front, and the area between his legs was uncomfortably sticky. John audibly sighed. This could not be happening.

He'd just had a wet dream about the Prince.


	4. An Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long since I updated. I'm getting ready for college.  
> But I'm so excited for the next chapter that I've already started writing it so hopefully that'll come soon!  
> Let me know what you guys think :)
> 
> Another note:  
> When meeting royalty - like the king - a person isn't allowed to speak unless they're spoken to first. They're also not allowed to leave the conversation until the king ends it.

It'd been a week since John arrived at the palace and things hadn't changed much and every day was the same. He'd been checking on the prince's stitches twice a day, but he wasn't really needed for the task anymore. And when John ate, the prince would occasionally join him. This still seemed to surprise everyone at the table when they arrived together. But the whole situation was becoming almost normal for John.

Most of John's free time though, was spent with the prince. John had to admit that, even though he missed working in the shop, he was having a pretty decent time at the palace. Even if he was around the prince just to watch him read or listen to him while he played the violin. Either way, he found himself enjoying it more than he would admit. He wasn't sure why the prince demanded his company nearly all hours of the day, but John found that he didn't much mind.

Occasionally while he watched Sherlock read, he'd attempt to strike up a conversation and, surprisingly enough, Sherlock would participate. John would take anything he could get when he communicated with Sherlock - which was mainly Sherlock's endless string of judgments against any person who happened to be in the room or his theories on matters John didn't know a thing about. Sherlock knew far more than any other person John met.

Although, after  _that dream_ , John found it difficult to make eye contact with Sherlock for a little while. While they talked he would always avert his eyes and it was obvious to anyone in the room that he was uncomfortable. If Sherlock noticed - John assumed he did - he didn't say anything, and John was grateful for that. After a few days of awkward glances and conversations, John had convinced himself that the dream meant nothing. Sherlock was blindingly attractive so it was natural that anyone would have that kind of dream about him. It didn't mean anything beyond physical attraction. John was then able to look Sherlock in the eye again, and he didn't have another dream about the prince after that.

Even though John enjoyed his time with Sherlock, he knew he would have to go home sooner or later. It'd been over a week since he left and the snow has let up just enough to make it home. John wondered how the shop was, considering he left it in the care of Charles - or how his house was faring due to the snow. He knew he was needed back home. So once he arrived in the prince's room that morning to take a look at his stitches, he decided to talk to Sherlock about when he could leave.

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, washcloth in hand. Sherlock was lying down, staring back up at John. John reached out and lifted Sherlock's shirt a fraction so he could start cleaning the wound.

"So, Sherlock," he began. His voice wavered just slightly.

"Hm?"

"I noticed the snow let up and I was thinking this is a good opportunity for me to return home," John insisted, while getting up from the bed and placing the washcloth back on the bowl.

"No," came the immediate reply from behind him.

John whipped around to face Sherlock, who was still lying on the bed, emotionless. "What do you mean 'no'"? John asked, his voice coming off a little more annoyed than intended.

"I meant exactly what I said. No," Sherlock said, turning his head to face John. His expression was hard and unreadable.

"And what if I leave anyway?" John said, crossing his arms. He didn't expect such a dramatic exchange to happen between them. There wasn't anything else Sherlock needed from him, so there was no point in him staying any longer.

"I wouldn't allow it," Sherlock replied.

"You can't keep me here," John said, his tone demanding.

"I can."

"You shouldn't," John insisted. Of course, Sherlock was a prince. If he wanted to keep John there, he could. And John wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of him becoming a prisoner.

Sherlock was silent for a minute before he responded. "You can't leave until my stitches are taken care of. " Sherlock's voice was still demanding, but John could have swore he heard insecurity in it.

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. John didn't want to admit it, but he liked Sherlock. They had got really close these past couple days and he considered him a friend. And if this was Sherlock trying to find an excuse for John to stay longer, then that must mean that Sherlock likes him also, even if only a little bit. John was happy that he was able to gain the prince's friendship - something not a lot of people could probably do.

Of course John wanted to stay longer. He was happier in Sherlock's presence than in any other situation. But the longer he stayed, the more attached he got to him. The way he was starting to feel around Sherlock was how he felt with Mary when they first met. This whole situation scared John and so he began to fall back on instinct - by running away from the situation. He convinced himself that the best solution is to leave.

"You can pull them out in two days," John stated after a long pause. He stared back at Sherlock. "You don't need me here to do it. Have one of your personal doctors pull them out," John said, reluctantly.

"As I've told you before, I don't trust them," Sherlock said, angry.

A little surprised by the rise in Sherlock's voice John hesitated. He was making it damn hard for John to leave and forget him. "Sherlock, I would like to go home. I do have a home outside of this palace, you know," John's voice rose as he was getting angrier the more he talked.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock asked, the anger still evident on his face. "And what would you be going home to? Your empty house? You and I both know there's no one waiting for you there. You shouldn't be in any rush to return to your lonely life," he finished, the last words coming out harsh.

John stared at him unbelieving. His left hand began to clench and un-clench uncomfortably at his side. "Well, then," John choked out. He wanted to say so much more but the words refused to come out of his mouth _. 'How dare he'_ was what he wanted to say. Sherlock knew enough about John's past to know that what he was saying was offensive. The fact that he'd say that knowing what he did was terrible. He said it intentionally to hurt him. John was experiencing a range of emotions from fury to sadness. For a split second John thought back to the rumors about Sherlock. The idea that they might be true came to mind almost instantly. John pursed his lips before he nodded and swiftly exited the prince's room, not having the will to respond.

As John exited the room, he tried his hardest to slam the door behind him. Lestrade, standing next to the room, nearly jumped from surprise. "John?" He asked, a little panicked.

"Unbelievable arse!" Was all John shouted before storming off to his room.

Lestrade knocked on the door to the prince's room. When he received no answer, he opened the door, looking inside. "My Lord?" He asked, walking towards the bed. Sherlock sat there, arms crossed over his chest. "What did you do to him?" Lestrade asked a little surprised. He'd never seen John that angry before.

"Why do you assume it was I who did something to him?" Sherlock asked, a scowl on his face.

"Well, because John is probably one of the kindest people I know. That, and he said that you were unbelievable," Lestrade said. He decided to keep the 'arse' part of John's comment to himself. "You have been known to be a little aggressive towards other people. Sometimes you push it too far."

"You can't speak to me like that," Sherlock said, slightly taken aback.

"My Lord, I've known and taken care of you since you were child. I think I have some right," Lestrade said folding his arms, mirroring the prince. "Now, I think you should go and apologize to him."

"Why should I?" He said, his face contorted in anger.

"What did you say to him? What did you do to him?" Lestrade asked. There was a pause. Sherlock then looked up meeting his eyes. "My Lord... what did you do to him? You didnt-!" Lestrade's voice was serious and slightly cautious.

"Of course not!" Sherlock said, exasperated. Sighing, he continued. "He was insistent on leaving. I panicked and said something that upset him. I didn't want him to leave. What was I supposed to say?" Sherlock said, a little annoyed.

Lestrade covered his face with his hand and sighed. "Not something like that. That's not how you get someone to stay with you, My Lord," Lestrade said, looking up.

"I don't need  _you_  to tell me that," Sherlock said with a hint of anger and superiority. "Now leave me alone," He demanded before getting off his bed and walking to his closet. He emerged a minute later in his usual undershirt and brown trousers, he walked back out to see Lestrade standing in the same place.

"What?" Sherlock spat out, looking up at Lestrade.

"You should apologize."

"I'm not going to apologize. Royalty doesn't apologize."

"You should let go of your pride and just apologize to John. I'm sure he'll understand if you tell him the truth. You don't want to drive him away, do you?" Lestrade asked.

"Hm," was Sherlock's short reply. He gave Lestrade one last look before walking around him and out the door.

* * *

John stalked to his room and sat on the bed, exasperated. He was trying his best to calm down, but to no avail. He didn't want to dwell on what Sherlock had said, but he couldn't shake it from his mind. That was probably the first time Sherlock had said something that upset John. Every other time he was impressed with the prince's deductions. This time it hurt John - it hurt how unbelievably true his statement was. John didn't want to believe he was all alone. Or that he had nothing to go home to. Or how he really didn't have a home at all.

At first he always considered the shop his home. He could work with his hands and forget all about his past there. He even had Charles that he considered a friend. But that was a distraction - not a home. Being a blacksmith, almost nothing reminded him of his past - of his home. That was the way John liked it. He didn't want to remember the disaster he caused.

Suddenly there was two sharp knocks at his door. John's gaze immediately followed the noise. For a second he thought it was Sherlock coming to apologize. A second later he came to his senses, realizing Sherlock would never doing something like that.

Before John could even get up to answer, the doors were flung open. There in the doorway stood two soldiers he'd never seen before. It wasn't surprising to see new people in the palace, considering how large the place was.

"Sir John Watson, your presence is requested by King Mycroft Holmes. We are to escort you to his quarters," one of the soldiers said, his words coming out demanding and stern. Without warning, the other soldier grabbed him by the arm and began to drag him out of the room.

 _'The king? What does the king want with me?'_ John thought, still being dragged through the halls by his arm.

"You know, I can walk just fine. You don't need to drag me around," John attempted, looking up at the soldier who was currently handling him. Hs face remained still and un-moving, carrying on as if he hadn't heard John at all.

The walk through the palace was longer than John thought it would be. It seemed like the king and prince were on completely opposite sides of the palace. It made sense - Sherlock did mention that he and his brother didn't get along. Just then, John couldn't help but wonder why they were at such odds with each other. What could have happened that made them dislike each other?

John's thoughts were cut short by the soldier letting go of his arm - more harshly than necessary, John noted. He looked up to see two very large doors in front of him. The soldier began to knock.

"Your majesty, sir John Watson is here as you requested."

"Send him in." The voice was deep, though not as deep as Sherlock's, but more elegant.

"In," the soldier demanded, pushing John through the doors the older soldier had opened for them. John noticed both soldiers walked in with him and stop on opposite sides. This whole situation was irritating. John's mood was already sour due to the exchange he and Sherlock had earlier, so he wasn't in the best of moods.

"Excuse me, King Mycroft-" John said, but was cut off by a soldier's hand striking him across the face. Now John was a tough man, having worked in the shop, but hell, that stung. John cringed, feeling the abused spot with his hand.

"You will speak when spoken to," the soldier said, his voice laced with anger.

"Now now, that's enough," the king smiled, standing up from the couch in the center of the room. "You're dismissed."

The soldiers nodded, exiting the room. Mycroft then turned his attention to John who was still standing in the doorway. Looking at the king, John could see no resemblance between him and Sherlock. The king's nearly balding, but Sherlock has a head full of curls. Though the king looked no older than forty. He wasn't terribly slim, unlike Sherlock. The king's hair was also a rich chestnut color, whereas Sherlock's was a dark brown, almost black.

The king narrowed his eyes, taking John's appearance in. John would have felt more comfortable had he been in his own clothes, but Lestrade insisted he wear the clothes provided for him. Now he felt more exposed than normal.

"So, John Watson is it?"

"Yes. But you knew that already, didn't you?" John boldly asked. He knew he wasn't being respectful, but he wasn't in the mood for being anything else. After his bout with Sherlock and being taken out of his room without any explanation as to why, he was too upset to care. King or not, John wasn't backing down.

Mycroft smiled at him, as if unfazed. "You must be exhausted. Sherlock does well to wear one down. Take a seat."

"I don't want to," John said in defiance.

Mycroft lifted his chin, looking down on John. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

Mycroft stood there for a short while, still looking John up and down. "You're brave. Far too much for someone like yourself," he announced, walking closer to John. He stopped a few feet away, holding up a folded piece of paper.

"What's that?" John asked, albeit reluctantly.

"You're a very secretive man, John Watson. Very difficult to find information on you, I might add," the king said, smirking. John froze in place.

"You're thirty years of age. Your life-long occupation is in medicine and aid, though you've recently taken up being a blacksmith. You lived in Estermere for no more than a year and a half. You moved here after you were driven away from your home involuntarily. This happened shortly after an unusually large amount of deaths occurred due to an incurable disease - of which you were blamed for. Both of your parents died from the disease, though your sister was able to survive. Then there's Mary-"

"Stop!" John shouted. Mycroft seemed unaffected by his outburst, but stopped none the less. "I get it, okay? What do you want?" John was sick of being constantly reminded of his past mistakes. Today was turning out to be a horrible day.

"I want to know what your connection is to Sherlock," he said, folding the paper and putting it back in his jacket pocket.

John thought for a second. He never really considered what their relationship might be. Doctor and patient? Acquaintances? Friends? He decided to choose his words carefully when responding. He had no idea what the king's motive was, after all. "The same as any other worker in the palace."

"And yet, unlike every other doctor here, he lets you get close to him. That, and you've gotten him to eat more frequently, and in the dinning hall no less. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John raised an eyebrow at that last question. "Sherlock and I aren't... We're not like that."

The king narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing John. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?" He asked suddenly serious, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I really don't believe that's any of your business," John said, standing his ground.

"I think you and I both know that it is. I am his brother, you know. And I'd be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money for your immediate departure. Though I must also ask that you no longer return," Mycroft said, walking over to his desk, beginning to pull out documents.

"Why?"

The king looked up from the paper he started writing on. "I worry about him," he said, straightening up. "Someone from the outside isn't right for him. He does love new, strange things, but after a while he'll get bored with you too. You've met him," Mycroft said, grabbing the document off his desk and walking back to John. "You should take it. I'm not generous very often."

"No."

"I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother," John said finally.

He surprised even himself by what he was saying. He had a chance to go home, and he gave it up. He didn't feel right leaving on such bad terms with the prince. Even though he wanted to punch Sherlock for what he said, he didn't want to relinquish the right to see him again. Not only that, but John had a bad feeling about the whole situation and he didn't trust the King's motives.

"You're very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft said, eyeing John.

"No I'm not. I'm just not interested," John said, shifting under the king's glare.

"John," Mycroft began. "Do you really know Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?"

"He secludes himself and refuses to let anybody in. He doesn't trust anyone except for Lestrade. He doesn't eat and he doesn't talk to anyone if he doesn't have to. He hardly even talks to me anymore. He has a terrible personality and a horrible demeanor. You can imagine how many friends a man like that would have. Why would anyone want to be around that, I wonder?"

John had to bite his tongue to keep himself from making a scene. "I'm sorry you feel that way, but that's not the case as far as I see it," was all John could manage. And John thought that Sherlock was an arse. No wonder the prince didn't want to be around his brother.

Only an hour ago John didn't want anything but to leave. Now, he wanted everything but that. He was surprised at how easily his mind changed when the king presented the opportunity to him. Maybe it was because he didn't want to satisfy a man who treated Sherlock like dirt. Or maybe it was because he never really wanted to leave in the first place.

"Holding back, are you?" Mycroft smirked for a second, then turned serious. "You know, John, there's a reason Sherlock turned out this way - always secluding himself from and never talking to others. Something happened to him when he was just a child."

John didn't have time to think before the doors to the king's room flew open. "Mycroft!" A voice yelled. John didn't have to turn around to know who it belonged to.

"Ah, what a surprise it is to see you here, younger brother. I haven't seen you around this part of the palace in almost a year," the King said, feigning shock. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Don't act like you don't know, Mycroft," Sherlock said, the name coming out with malice. He stalked from the door to Mycroft, standing a few inches in front of John.

"You surprise me still, Sherlock. I didn't know you had such an attachment to him. I know your intentions are good, but I can't allow this to happen."

"Don't pretend like you care," Sherlock said, a little more calmly.

"I have to care. I'm your brother and your king."

"Well don't. I don't need it," Sherlock said. He quickly turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. "John!" He shouted.

John nodded in the king's direction before quickly following Sherlock out of the door and into the hall.

"What was that about, Sherlock?" John asked, walking beside him. There was no reason for Sherlock to appear, and yet he did. Which brought the question to John's mind of how Sherlock even knew where he was.

"Don't talk to that man ever again," he demanded.

"Look, back there... I didn't have a choice. He dragged me to his room. Literally."

"I know. I saw it," Sherlock said glancing at John for no more than a second.

"Wait, you saw it? So you followed me? And you didn't bother coming in sooner?" John asked, annoyed. But that's when it dawned on it. Sherlock followed him - Sherlock listened through the door. "Did you hear what happened in there?" John asked reluctantly.

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds as they continued walking through the palace. "Yes," he said, almost inaudibly.

John thought back to the conversation. Sherlock came in right before the king had told John something about Sherlock - apparently something big enough for Sherlock to not want John to hear it. "Sherlock, what he was about to say back there... About you-"

"Forget about that," he said, his voice slightly aggravated. Sherlock then shook his head as if changing his mind. "No, not now," he said, calming down. "I can't tell you now."

John decided to drop it, and the rest of the walk through the palace was in silence. John continued following Sherlock, but only because he didn't know exactly where he was. Though no longer on the King's side of the palace, they were still in an unfamiliar area. All the while, his mind was in a frantic blur, trying to put together everything else the king said to him. Sherlock now knew about John's past - for the most part. Sherlock had also heard John defend him. John sighed, wanting nothing more than to bury his head in his hands in embarrassment.

Sherlock finally stopped once he was faced with a large door at the end of an empty hallway. Looking around, John noticed that the hallway was thin and bare - no windows or doors - besides the room in front of them. Sherlock then entered the room, still not looking in John's direction. John followed him in, and shut the door behind him. He knew this was going to be a painful conversation. But once he looked up, he was stunned silent by the room they were in.

The room was smaller than an average room in the palace, but looked more comfortable. The ceiling was curved and each wall had three tall windows from floor to ceiling, curtains covering them. On the wall to John's right, instead of windows, was a large portrait. It was a painting of none other than Sherlock. The portrait couldn't compare to the real thing, but it came very close and John found himself staring. In the portrait, Sherlock wore a blue jacket with a large collar. The portrait stopped just above the waist so only the blue coat was visible. Around his neck was a large white cravat tucked into a white undershirt. Over his left shoulder were long blue robes with white fur around the edges. It was a beautiful painting.

John's eyes scanned the rest of the room. This room was much different from any other room in the palace. It wasn't as elaborately decorated or detailed. There was a plain chestnut desk facing a window opposite the portrait. Along the walls of the room were chairs, all alike. In front of the painting was a long red divan, the fabric matching the fabric on the curtains. Behind the divan was a grand piano, opened like it was played recently. The whole room was a mix of red and gold except for the white ceiling. The difference from the rest of the palace was astounding.

"Come here," Sherlock insisted, now standing at the opposite end of the room next to a large window.

John looked at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes. He couldn't forget their conversation from this morning. And after finding out that Sherlock had discovered more about his past than John was willing to share, he wasn't ready to face him. His legs refused to move.

"Stop thinking about it so much, and just come here," Sherlock said, a little more impatient this time.

Before he knew what he was doing, John began walking to where Sherlock was. Just as John reached him, Sherlock pulled open the large curtain revealing the world beyond the palace walls. John saw his village at the bottom of the hill as well as the plains and forests that surround it. From this spot, John could see the land go on for miles. Everything was covered in a new layer of snow, and the world looked porcelain white. The sun was just barely peeking through the clouds, showering the village in a beautiful glow. John hadn't seen anything more beautiful.

"From here you can see Estermere perfectly. I think this is the best view in the palace," Sherlock said, leaning in close to John.

John dared to look up and stare at Sherlock. "What is this place?"

"This is my private room. I'm the only person who can come in here and I've never invited anyone in before," Sherlock said, serious.

"Then why am I in here?" John asked, taking a step back so he could see Sherlock better.

"This is an apology," He said. "I'm not exactly sure how to do it, considering I've never done it before. But Lestrade informed me that my actions weren't exactly appropriate earlier today."

That was the last thing John expected Sherlock to say. Was Sherlock actually apologizing? John was speechless. Of course John didn't want to forgive him, but he found that it was impossible. When it came to Sherlock, it seemed that he just couldn't say no. So instead, he settled for silence.

"You do have a home, John," Sherlock continued, motioning towards Estermere. "And I'm sorry."

The apology was odd and yet sincere. Leave it to Sherlock to apologize so literally. Although, he was flattered that Sherlock would show him such a personal thing. John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock was bizarre and anyone would find it hard to keep up with him. That was his personality.

"I give you permission to leave," Sherlock said, his expression going hard as he returned his gaze to the window. "Though I would like to request your presence for a few more days. At least until my stitches are to be removed.

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" John said after a short pause, stuffing his hands in his pockets and glancing out of the window again.

John felt that he didn't need to outright acknowledge Sherlock's apology. He knew Sherlock would take that reply as John accepting his apology. If he didn't accept it, then John would have rejected the idea of staying there any longer. John glanced at Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock, smiling just slightly, as he continued to stare out the window, and John's heart immediately sped up from the sight. He had to force himself to look away, fearful that Sherlock might catch him staring. Sherlock hadn't smiled once since he met him.

What scared John was that he found himself completely taken in by Sherlock's smile. No other sight could compare to it. He wanted more of Sherlock's smile - He wanted to be the reason he smiled. He felt nervous and happy at the same time and he didn't know why. All these new thoughts were flooding his mind from seeing only a mere second of a smile from Sherlock. His chest tightened just from thinking about it. He didn't know what was going on anymore.

As it dawned on him about what this might mean, he was filled with dread. He knew for sure that he was in trouble.


	5. A Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Sorry it's been a long time!  
> With starting college and all that, it's been kind of hectic.  
> Also, my computer crashed when I was nearly finished so it took a long time before I felt up for writing it all over haha.
> 
> They're getting into some heavy stuff now, so it should be getting a little more interesting.  
> Enjoy!

With a tug, John pulled the last string from the wound. He reached for a bandage, covering the area so no infection could come to it. He sighed and set his utensils back on the table behind him and grabbed a nearby cloth, wiping his hands clean.

"Alright, that should do it," he said, walking back towards Sherlock who was still motionless in bed. Sherlock turned to glance at John, his expression plain; bored even. John tried not to let it affect him. The prince just looked so cold and reserved.

"That was one bloody awful wound. I suggest avoiding any more injuries for a while," John chuckled, trying to lighten the tense mood - anything to make Sherlock look at him the way he did just a few days ago. Since that day in Sherlock's private room, John couldn't stop the ache in his heart any time he was near Sherlock. Just a tiny smile from the prince and John's stomach would twist, and yet it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, he craved it. He felt an unfamiliar pull towards him and he didn't yet know how to describe what it was he was feeling.

Sherlock's expression didn't change, and he still held an aura of disinterest about him. John's stomach nearly dropped. He didn't exactly expect gratitude, but he didn't think Sherlock would be mute on the subject. "Well then," John said as he started for the door. "Guess I should get Lestrade then."

"John, wait," Sherlock said. John turned quickly to face him, almost too eager to hear the man's voice again.

"Yes?"

"Pass me my shirt before you call Lestrade in?" Sherlock said, nodding to the white undershirt draped over the chair John was previously sitting in.

John narrowed his eyes, walking towards the garment, not even two feet from the prince. He plucked it from the chair and tossed it on the bed, none too graceful. John had gotten his hopes up that the prince would think of him as someone of more importance than other people. More than just an acquaintance or a doctor. Just because of the night in Sherlock's private room, John thought he was someone special. It must have not been the same for Sherlock.

' _Of course,'_  John thought.  _'This is the prince. He's not interested in friendships or anything of that kind with anyone. He doesn't even know what it is.'_  As harsh as that thought was, it was the truth. Since he met him, John knew that Sherlock was a secretive man who prefered solitude. Nothing John did would change that.

John mentally reprimanded himself for ever thinking otherwise. He smiled sadly to himself, walking towards the prince's door and opening it for Lestrade to come through.

"Ahh, is our Lord taken care of?" Lestrade asked happily, walking to Sherlock's side.

"Yes, he's made a full recovery. He'll be fine," John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Shall I be going now?"

Sherlock gave John an odd, calculating look - the look he gives when he's in deep concentration about something, or someone, he's deducing.

"Ah yes. Marvelous job, sir Watson. Our family thanks you for your services," Lestrade said, walking towards John. "We should get you home. You've been away for too long."

John nods and is about to exit the room when Sherlock's voice stops him.

"Well done," he comments. "See you soon."

John is about to speak up but it seems as though Sherlock is done talking because he shifts down more into his bed like he's about to sleep. John can't help but wonder what he means by that but decides it doesn't matter.

"John?" Lestrade questions, taking in John's expression. John is caught in his thoughts and turns back toward Lestrade.

"Yes, alright," he says before following Lestrade out of Sherlock's room.

* * *

 

It'd been over two weeks since John had last seen or heard from Sherlock. John's life seemed to go back to normal. It was like he'd never even met the prince at all, and it bothered John more than he'd like to admit. He wasn't supposed to be this attached to him. After everything he's heard and witnessed, he knew that nothing good could come from being involved with him. But he was curious. That's what he told himself; just curious.

Nothing about the prince made sense to him. Rumors told one story, but the real thing was very different. The prince wasn't cold-hearted or hideous, or any of that mindless chatter that floated through the village. He was actually quite caring - at least, that's what John could see. It seemed as though Sherlock wanted to portray this air of indifference, but John knew better. What John didn't get, was why he was trying so hard to hide himself from others, or why he resisted sharing his true feelings. John had only seen a glimpse of the real Sherlock, but that glimpse meant more to him than anything else in his life so far. And that's what scared him.

The longer John went without seeing Sherlock, the more he thought of him. He tried to bury himself in his work like usual, but due to the increased weather difficulties, he found himself home more often than not. This gave him a lot of time to think, and his thinking always somehow lead back to Sherlock. He couldn't remember what he always thought about before Sherlock entered the picture. The only thing he knew now was that he had to see him again.

It was a bitterly cold morning when John heard an unfamiliar knock at his front door. It was unusual for him to get visitors, even more so at this early hour. He had just awoken and lit the fireplace so he was still nearly half asleep when he went to open the door.

Two men in similar royal attire stood in front of him. This could only mean one thing - Sherlock sent them. At least, he hoped. He felt a spark of hope ignite inside him.

"Excuse me," one said. "Are you sir John Watson?"

"Yes. Who's asking?" John asked, fervently rubbing his hands together to ward off the cold that was now seeping through house from the open door. Snow began to gather at the foot of the door from the storm raging outside.

One of the men handed John a medium-sized package as well as a neatly folded letter. "You are hereby invited to attend the Holmes' annual holiday ball. All information is provided in the letter. Good day," he finished before tipping his hat and turning back to the carriage with the other gentleman.

John quickly shut the door and set to opening the letter. On the cover, in beautiful lettering, was John's name. Inside, the letter read;

_John H. Watson,_

_is requested to attend the Ball, at the Holmes' palace, on Monday, 28th of December Current, at 4 o'clock p. m._

_King Mycroft & Prince Sherlock Holmes, December, 1809._

John scoffed.  _'A ball? What is he thinking?'_ Naturally John wouldn't fit in. He knew his place well enough. He'd never even heard of the Holmes hosting an annual ball - shows what sort is invited. He looked down at the letter again. The 28th of December was only two days away. Leave it to Sherlock to wait until the last moment to inform him.

John turned his attention to the package next. He hadn't a clue as to what could be in it, but knowing the prince, he wasn't sure if he'd like it or not. He carefully opened it to find a beautifully crafted outfit, fit for a ball. There was a black waistcoat accompanied by a blue vest and a white cravat. Tan trousers were also included with a pair of new black boots. The clothing was obviously made from very expensive material. John could never afford clothing of this sort on his own; not in his wildest dreams.

John laughed to himself. He could just picture Sherlock, while picking out the outfit, saying something along the lines of, "I couldn't have you show up in what you normally wear. It'd be a disaster. You'd scare the guests away." It'd be true, too.

Sighing, John put the letter and the package down on a nearby table. He knew he wasn't cut out for a royal ball. But he knew if he ever wanted to see Sherlock again he'd have to push aside his insecurities and go to the bloody thing. John was going to go to all this trouble, and for what? He wondered if Sherlock even did care. The way he'd treated John in the last moments they spent together suggested he didn't. But he had to know - had to know why he was feeling the way he was and if Sherlock, perhaps, felt the same.

John sat himself by the fireplace, trying to gain more warmth. This winter was turning about to be the worst they'd had in a long while. As he sat there, he hoped and prayed that it would die down enough for him to make it to the palace and back in two days. He wouldn't want a repeat of the last time he was there, would he?

* * *

 

As he stepped into the grande ballroom, John nervously tugged on his blue vest, trying to make sure everything was in place and looked decent. He didn't want to give away that he was a commoner amongst royalty. He could only image what they'd do to him if they found out.

When John finally looked up from his nervous fidgeting, he could see the beauty that covered the room. It was lit by a plethora of candles, with the moon lending its light also. There were many unfamiliar faces, all dancing and enjoying themselves. At the end of the room were four thrones, all identical. John assumed that the previous King and Queen, plus their two sons, sat there before their parent's passing. Now, they sat empty, but still enhanced the room. It looked like everything was from another world, different from anything that John had ever experienced. He'd never seen this part of the castle before and was still amazed by its complex beauty.

John brought himself to the side of the room, out of the way of the dancers, so as to keep an eye out for Sherlock and avoid the mass of people. The moment he stepped foot in the palace again, his heart refused to be calm. Since then, he's had a horrid time trying to tame it. He tried distracting himself by watching the guests. A few people shot him odd glances, and John didn't know if it was because they could see through him or if they were just curious because he was a new face. John decided it didn't matter - it wasn't like he'd be doing something like this again. After this night, he'd never had to see these people anymore.

While John kept at his visual search for the prince, a female figure began walking towards him. John inwardly panicked. He didn't know what he was to do in a situation like this.

As she approached him, she curtsied and bowed her head.  _'Ah, of course,'_  John thought.  _'She just wanted a dance.'_ Before he could react, John felt a firm hand land on his shoulder. All too quickly he turned to find, not Sherlock, but Mycroft standing there. He tried not to let it show on his face how disappointed he was.

"Sorry," Mycroft said to the woman now standing in front of John. "He is now occupied at the moment."

"I'm so sorry, your highness," she said, bowing quickly, and hurrying back off into the crowd of dancers.

"Your majesty," John said uneasily. "What a pleasant surprise. Didn't think you'd waste time talking to the likes of me."

"Please, John. No need to be so terse," he smirked, leaning on the cane in his right hand.

"How kind of you to invite me to your celebration." John turned back to the crowd, folding his hands behind his back. Whatever it was that Mycroft wanted couldn't be good. The last time they'd met was under less than pleasant circumstances. The way he'd talked about Sherlock wasn't the way someone talked about a brother they loved - a brother they cared about. John wanted this conversation done and over with as soon as possible.

"Yes, well, I owed Sherlock a favor," he said, examining the intricate detail on his cane far too closely. "Odd."

"What is?" John asked, not really interested.

"That he chose you as his one favor. As you know, I'm not a generous man. Favors aren't usually on the top of my list."

John was nearly speechless at that."Well, it certainly is a mystery," John forced out, trying not to seem too obviously happy.

"You and I both know you don't actually believe that, John," Mycroft said, suddenly serious.

John looked at him almost incredulously. "What do you mean?"

"We both know he has some… Unnatural attachment to you. It's strange. How such a simple person can make such an impact on someone like him," he said, turning to look at John. "You're no good for him, John. And I will see to it that, if you don't leave him alone, I will go to great lengths to ensure your separation. Don't test me. This is the last time I will attempt to come to an agreement through peaceful means."

"Why try so hard to separate us?" John asked, slightly annoyed. Though the King's words frightened him, he was determined not to show it.

"I think that's obvious. Even to you. You are from different worlds. You don't know anything about him. And if you wish to stay in Estermere, then I suggest you keep it that way," he ended, his tone coming off threatening.

"Why invite me here then? If you don't want me near him, why bring us together today?" John asked, rubbing his eyes, nearly exhausted from their short conversation.

"A last warning. I think you know now what's in store for you if you don't follow my suggestion."

"You don't seem like the protective brother type, so what are you really after? Is there some big family secret you're trying to keep?" John asked, only half serious. The look Mycroft gave him suggested that his suspicions are right. And if there was some big family secret, how could it be so bad that Mycroft hides his brother from the world?

Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted a figure walking their way. It was Sherlock, clad in a blue outfit, strikingly similar to the one John wore. His outfit nearly gleamed against his beautiful, pale skin. His ebony hair swayed with every step he took and framed his face perfectly. He surely was a beautiful sight to take in. In only a matter of seconds Sherlock was standing face to face with John, making the shorter man speechless. With Mycroft close by also, he wasn't sure how to react. The only thing he knew was that his heart needed to stop beating so frantically.

"Well, then," Mycroft began. "Do remember our little conversation, John." He stated finally, giving one last knowing glance at John before walking away.

Sherlock looked down at John, narrowing his eyes. "What was that all about? I thought I told you to never talk to that man again."

John opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it. In almost an instant, every negative feeling from his earlier conversation disappeared. All of his thoughts vanished and were replaced with one thing - Sherlock. Instead of answered him, he just smiled. "Nice to see you again, too."

Sherlock gave him a questioning look for a second before his face turned back to indifference. Without hesitation, he held a hand out, almost like he was expecting John to grab it. Once he saw the confused look John was giving him, he just sighed and grabbed the other's hand. "Care to dance, John?" He asked, already pulling him towards the center of the floor in more graceful manner than John thought possible.

"Sher- Are you sure this is a good idea? There are people-! We're not-"

"You talk far too much, do you know that?" Sherlock said, more of a statement rather than a question.

The pair was now in the center of the dance floor, just in time for the music to die down to a slower melody. John internally sighed, his face growing redder every second he stood there, one of Sherlock's hands grasping his, the other resting on his hip. He fought off the thoughts brought on by the heat that emerged from the places Sherlock was touching him. Instead he tried to focus on his dancing. John was never really taught how to dance so he ended up following the slow movements Sherlock made with his body the best he could.

All the while John stood there, swaying in time with Sherlock, he tried to keep his mind as far from the situation as possible. Sherlock was mute since they started dancing, which John found strange. John finally decided to risk a glance at Sherlock's face. The second he looked up, his eyes locked with Sherlock's. He couldn't have been staring, could he? John quickly looked away again, his eyes meeting the buttons on Sherlock's coat collar.

"I-ahh, okay," John stammered out.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

"Yes, right," John said, still refusing to look at the other man. He wanted to hit himself for sounding so stupid. He hadn't the slightest idea why he was acting so strange. It's just Sherlock - why was he so nervous?

The cool feeling of Sherlock's palm on his and the heat coming off the other confidently placed on John's hip, created a confusing, and comfortable emotion within John. And that look that they shared, if only briefly, brought a flurry of warmth that spread throughout his body. His whole being felt like it was engulfed in a comfortable heat. Both mind and body seemed to be affected by the tiniest touch and the briefest glance. The urge to hold his hand tighter, to feel more of the man in front of him, became almost unbearable.

Before he knew it, the music stopped and Sherlock was pulling away. John heard him whisper, "Follow me," before walking towards the entrance of the ballroom. Without really thinking, John began after Sherlock, following him out the ballroom and into the large palace halls.

In no time John was being led into the study that he and Sherlock occupied for the majority of the time John was there. Only this time, the circumstances were different and he found himself nervous. This situation, with the both of them completely alone together, had John in an anxious fit, unsure of how to react.

"Is it really alright for you to not be out there? Aren't you hosting the ball?" John asked, closing the door behind him. Sherlock laid across the divan that was parallel to the fireplace. John joined him, sitting down beside the white piece of furniture, like he always had when they were together.

"Boring. I promised Mycroft thirty minutes in exchange for a favor. What a pointless activity. What good is it to me?"

John tried to stifle a laugh, though unsuccessful. He knew what the favor was, and he was delighted to hear that Sherlock went to the trouble to see him again. It occurred to him that Mycroft probably had a terrible time trying to get his brother to make an appearance - if only once a year to remind everyone that he was still alive.

"What's funny?" Sherlock asked, leaning over the divan so he face was hovering just above John's shoulder. John turned to get a better look at the man behind him.

"Nothing, nothing," John assured, smiling.

"Yes, well…," he trailed off. "I brought you here for a reason, John," Sherlock said, swinging his legs over the side of the divan so he could face John easier.

"What reason is that?"

"Someone's trying to kill me. I need your help," Sherlock suggested.

John was momentarily silenced. Had he heard the prince right? The way he said it was so calm, like they were chatting about the weather. But the seriousness of what he just said could not be overlooked, though that was the way he was making it seem. "What? How do you know?"

"It's obvious; the mishap in sword training, the increased number of food testers dying. Someone's trying to get to me, I just don't know why," he said, frustrated. He didn't seem to mind that his life was in danger, but more so that he couldn't figure out who it was or why they were doing it.

John tried his best to remain calm with the information given to him. Sherlock asked for his help, so he would do all he could. He knew outwardly reacting to what he was saying wouldn't be much help at all. "It must be someone working for you in the palace then. Can't you find them and arrest them?" He said, doing his best to keep the worry from his voice, but clearly failing.

"No, don't be obvious. Someone from outside the castle is pulling the strings. Too risky for them to be this close to me," he replied, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

"How do you expect me to be able to help?" John asked. Sherlock was brilliant, and John was, well, John. Someone as simple as him couldn't help much, even though he wanted to.

"I need a doctor, in case of emergencies. Plus, I think better when I talk aloud. It looks better if I have someone with me. What I'm asking is if you'll stay with him until I've figured this whole thing out," Sherlock said, smirking, as he stood up from the divan and faced John, who still sat on the floor.

John sighed, getting up from the floor to be able to face Sherlock. "Am I supposed to leave everything behind to come here and become your personal doctor?"

"What would you be leaving behind?" Sherlock asked, honestly curious. He quickly realized what happened the last time he asked a question like that and tried to correct himself. "I mean, it'll only be temporary," he assured, shifting uncomfortably.

John smiled. He couldn't exactly leave Sherlock alone when there was a threat to his life. Also, the thought of being close to him again made the offer almost irrefutable. "Fine. But you better not let yourself get murdered or anything," John said, chuckling.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door to the study. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and quickly pulled him to the back corner of the room where there was a gap from the wall to the bookcase. John was slammed against the wall and Sherlock pressed his body a little too close for comfort against John's.

"Sherlock! Wha-"

"Quiet!" He whispered harshly, his mouth centimeters from John's ear. In an instant, John's face went completely red and he almost forgot to breathe. Images of the dream he had, with himself and Sherlock in a not too appropriate situation, fogged his brain. He tried his best to rid his mind of the thoughts, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon, what with the prince's body pressed so closely to his.

The sound of a door opening echoed through the room. "Your highness? Prince Sherlock? Are you in here?" A familiar voice asked. John recognized that it belonged to Lestrade. "Mycroft is none too pleased you skipped out on the ball."

John heard Lestrade enter the room and panicked. He tried his hardest to focus on the sound of Lestrade's footsteps and where they were going, but all his mind thought about was the warm breath that smoothed over his ear and the hard chest pressed firmly against his. He could only imagine what would happen to him should Lestrade find them in this situation.

The footsteps suddenly stopped for a few seconds, then retreated. The last thing John heard was the soft click of the door closing. He let out a sigh of relief.

"Hiding from your brother? I don't blame you," John said, looking up at Sherlock who pulled his head back just enough to stare at John. "Uh, Sherlock?" John asked when Sherlock made no attempt to move from their position. Sherlock's face showed signed of uncertainty, which frightened John. "Are you okay?"

"You talk far too much, John," Sherlock said before slowly leaning down and capturing John's lips with his own.


End file.
